Dalton Asylum
by whateverbro
Summary: Some people are just.. criminally insane. Dalton!verse. RatedM.
1. Charlie

Charlie likes discipline.

Charlie likes good behavior and proper conduct. He wasn't exactly an ideal role model before, so now Charlie tries to make up for it. He makes sure nothing is in disarray and everyone is where they're supposed to be. He meticulously straightens out every minute detail of every little thing. You can go so far as to call Charlie a perfectionist. Maybe he is.

Because of this, Charlie despises messes. He loathes anything that can prove to be a nuisance, or can create unnecessarily loud noises and unfortunately for Charlie, the two usually came hand-in-hand.

But Charlie had discovered a way to end all that. And Charlie uses this method quite often.

In a fit of anger, Charlie had once lifted a boy up by the neck, cutting off any chance of oxygen flow to his lungs. The boy had knocked over a nearby trashcan. The contents spilled, not only on the sidewalk, but on Charlie's precious white shoes. If only the boy had just behaved, if only he had refrained from running carelessly, then Charlie wouldn't have gotten so furious. Charlie tried to tell him that, that this whole ordeal could have been avoided if he had just _behaved. _But the boy didn't seem to be listening. He kept on clawing on Charlie's large, callous hand, which only succeeded in making Charlie angrier. So Charlie gripped tighter, the veins in his athletic arm bulging as he yelled at the boy now, telling him to listen- suddenly, the boy went limp in his arms.

Charlie stopped yelling.

Can you hear that?

Nothing. There was nothing.

Charlie smiled.

Silence. Delicious silence.

Why hadn't he thought of this before?

As Charlie's long fingers dug into skin, pressing tighter against each vein, each muscle on the girl's neck, Charlie waited patiently, an excited smile on his lips. The girl's face was slowly turning pale, a hollow look in her blue eyes. The muffled screams caught in her throat died down just as her eyes rolled back.

Charlie grinned proudly.

After all, Charlie just likes discipline.


	2. Blaine

Blaine likes to sing.

Blaine likes the rush of emotions that simmer in his chest with every rough pluck on a guitar, or smooth caress on the keys of a piano. Blaine loves the sinewy notes that float in the air as he strains his voice to reach each muffled emotion, each hidden wish.

But nothing satisfies Blaine's hunger more than the high-pitched shriek of a dying victim.

They were watching a crime show that fateful day. Blaine just turned thirteen. His dad sat on the plush leather couch they had wordlessly labeled his, Shane was upstairs, holed up in his room, and his mom was in the kitchen.

A man was robbing a young-looking woman. She refused to surrender her purse. The man took out a long, stainless knife that shone ominously under the lamp post. He brought it up above his head. And then he struck her, repeatedly, viciously.

And then Blaine heard it. The scratched cries full of overwhelming terror, clawing its way up her throat desperately. The endless stream of tired screeches forcing its way into the bloodied air, expanding till it faded and more were produced. The look of sheer fright on her white-as-a-ghost face delicately complimented the terrified screams escaping her purple lips.

It was a song.

And Blaine was entranced.

Big golden-brown eyes watched with morbid fascination as tainted metal rose and fell to embed itself into the woman's chest, her arm, her shoulder. Her voice was turning hoarse, a dying ember in the lively flames of Blaine's insatiable musical fixation. The sound of pointed blade meeting flesh resounded against her frightened cries. Blaine hadn't realized he had closed his eyes, ears straining to memorize each bloodcurdling octave.

It was the best form of music Blaine has ever heard.

As Blaine tightened his lithe fingers around the knife's handle, he shuddered visibly. It sounded even better up close.

But Blaine didn't understand why this boy was fighting back. He just wanted to hear the boy's song. It was exquisite. Why didn't the boy want him to hear his song? Blaine wished he could sing like that.

After all, Blaine just likes to sing.


	3. Kurt

Kurt likes clothes.

Kurt likes all forms of clothing, so long as they were in season of course. Kurt knows nothing but fashion. He loves the soft kiss of perfect fabric on his milky skin as it slides with ease against his lotion-clad arms and legs. He loves Louis Vitton, Lacoste, Armani, Gucci, Ralph Lauren, Banana Republic, Hugo Boss. He loves the enticing scent of a newly bought outfit, and Kurt loves the sight of his expanding wardrobe.

He especially loves it when each inch of clothing hugs him so tightly, desperately clinging to his skin. His clothes are like a second skin to Kurt.

They help him breathe.

Kurt thinks he would be dead without his clothes, literally lifeless. They are what give him hope. With every slushie, every dumpster toss, every shove against the locker, Kurt cries and his self-esteem falters. But one hungry glimpse at his wardrobe, one look at the hangers of woven silk and wool sown to perfection and his heart fixes itself. Kurt honestly doesn't know what he'd do without fashion.

Kurt pities those who are ignorant to the drug-like addiction that fashion induces. He pities how they live colorless lives, nothing but dull grays and whites hanging from their shoulders. Kurt wants to help them. He wants them to feel what he feels when he puts on clothes that are so artistic and unique.

So Kurt helps them.

He asks kids at school if they'd like to have his clothes- the ones that are out of season and the ones Kurt probably won't wear anymore anyway.

They don't want it. Kurt doesn't understand. Why don't they want his clothes? He just wants to help them. He just wants them to feel the surge of confidence and hope he feels. Why don't they want his help?

Kurt gets angry, because what problem did they have with his clothes? They didn't know how much more confident, more courageous they could feel when they wore clothes like his.

So Kurt pulls them aside. He grabs a needle and a long bundle of thread. With skillful precision, Kurt carefully sews the fabric into the boy's skin. Terrified cries of agony pour out of the boy, and Kurt pricks his flailing hands and tells him to be still. The boy doesn't listen. He continues to thrash around, pushing and kicking. Kurt finally snaps. He stabs the needle deep into the boy's chest till the tip of Kurt's fingers connect with bloodied skin.

The boy stops, hollow eyes staring at the space behind Kurt and lips coated with blood gushing from his mouth.

Kurt smiles, before continuing to sew.

After all, Kurt just likes clothes.


	4. Wes

Wes hates the mob.

Wes hates the murky smell of blood and gun powder and heart-wrenching fear flooding the humid air as gun-barrels tentatively kiss wet skin. He hates the grim, shadowy atmosphere that hovers gingerly in the air, mixing unpleasantly with sweat and warm breaths. Wes hates the soulless, possessed looks in henchmen's eyes as they zero in on their targets, their missions. He hates the frightening amount of power, of inhumane control that is rendered by simple gun-handling.

Wes hates and fears so many things about the mob. But there is one thing he hates and fears most.

His father.

When his father says a word, one word, Wes has to obey it. He has to. It was his father who had ordered him. And everyone obeys their father.

Kill, his father says. Wes pulls the trigger with a heavy heart.

Strangle, his father says. Wes tightens his grip around the man's neck with teary eyes.

Kidnap, his father says. Wes secures the knot around the frantic girl's wrists with a wounded conscience.

Wes has tried to say no. He's tried to form that two-letter word whenever his father uttered a bidding. But once the tip of his tongue is curled against the roof of his mouth, once he's formed that letter and had just one more left, his father's eyes stare into his and seep into his soul and spill its hatred and maliciousness into Wes' otherwise untainted heart. His breathing becomes ragged, his heart pounds helplessly against his chest, his hands shake and sweat violently.

Wes wants to say no. But he can't. It was his father who had ordered him. And everyone obeys their father.

So Wes continues to be part of the mob. He continues to spill blood, but makes sure that they clean the messes. He continues to cut skin, but does it as precisely as possible so that it doesn't look so grotesque. He continues to strangle necks, but does it as quickly as possible so as not to prolong the torture. He continues to pull triggers, but once and only once will he shoot the same man.

Slowly, the pure light in Wes' eyes disappear completely, but it doesn't go without resistance. Wes makes it a point to contribute small acts of rebellion in each of his missions.

After all, Wes just hates the mob.


	5. David

David likes achieving.

David likes knowing that he has been putting his parent's money to good use. He likes waking up to the assurance that he's likely to grow up with a good career. He likes the appreciative albeit brief glance he shares with the teacher as he grins politely back.

Hearing all these, one would think David was a good boy- a normal one.

David likes that he accomplishes what every parent wishes their child could do. He likes the envious looks directed at him, quickly masked by utter despair at their own lower scores. He likes the spite, the hatred, the _fear _that grows behind his classmates' eyes because they know he has the potential to be great- greater than every single one of them.

But David was charming and nice and polite, so they befriended him. They didn't know David. David didn't know David.

It was one afternoon after Math that the Mad Hatter finally reared his ugly head.

The teacher had announced there was to be a pop quiz. David beamed, fully prepared. He quickly fingered through the neatly arranged books and papers in his backpack, searching for the calculator he'd be needing. He looked and looked and looked.. it wasn't there. He was certain it wasn't there.

David inwardly screamed. Where was his calculator? He was sure he didn't leave it at the dorm. Not anywhere. He distinctly remembered putting it in his bag and he distinctly remembered not taking it out. So where was it?

David's forehead glistened with sweat. The moment he had received the paper, he visibly blanched. The damn test practically _required_ the use of a calculator, otherwise you were doomed. He spent the entire period drumming his pencil, looking down and darting his eyes left and right in desperation. David couldn't believe he was cheating. He could only hope these idiots beside him were right.

He ended the test looking pale, tired and absolutely livid. The teacher cocked a brow at him. He simply glared in utter misery and defeat.

Suddenly, someone was calling him from behind. Turning, David's eyes flared. There was his calculator, being waved in the air like some flag. David was red with rage. Hastily, he walked towards the boy and calmly ushered him out the building. He then brought him to the most secluded area in Dalton and without warning, bended back the boy's fingers- one by one- until a delicious crack resounded in the humid air. David's eye lighted with satisfaction as the boy's pained cries pierced his ears.

He told the boy that it was his fault. It was his fault David failed_._

The boy asked him if he were crazy. All he had done was try to give back the calculator he had borrowed from David yesterday.

Hadn't he realized? David was crazy right from the start.

Since then, David has sliced open a stomach for when his partner forgot to bring a frog. And he's cut off a few toes for when a boy intentionally tripped him during their practical test in PE.

David threatened all of them not to tell. They knew David had the potential to be great- greater than every single one of them- so they never spoke of the incidence. They all knew what he was capable of.

They told people it was the result of freak accidents.

Since then, David has been getting better grades.

After all, David just likes achieving.


End file.
